The first gift I remember from him was a lie.
He presses onto the hardwood floor and
somewhere God groans. Locks me into
embrace and a rock falls from his mouth.
The rock shatters, he hardens:
maneuvers in seeking warmth from the dead.
Now that I have found my dead,
what to do with it.
The small talk can only last so long, so
do not build the fire you were considering.
The rock in his hand has found the back
of your head before so don’t inquire.
He convinces me the excess sweat on him
is from baptism, the dilation from divinity.
I cannot remember the second gift,
but the rock stirred alongside the wall